


Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Made Love Before They Finally Did

by rabidchild67



Series: Fits and Starts [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Made Love Before They Finally Did

**Number 1**

“Hey, you ready?”

Neal looked up from his computer at Peter, who stood over his desk with an expectant look on his face. Neal smiled broadly; Peter had really tried to look good today – new, _tailored_ suit, stylish tie, fitted shirt, and shoes – well, the shoes were a bit scuffed, but he looked _good_ , and Neal could find no fault. It was to be their third date together tonight and, to Neal, it was significant. 

Because by the third date, you knew if you hit it off with someone. By the third date, it was sayonara or stay friends. By the third date, you didn’t look like a huge slut if you…

_It was their third date._

Neal shut down his computer and tidied up his desk, rose and grabbed his hat. “Let’s go.”

Peter’s hand at his elbow as Neal preceded him out of the office felt like a promise.

\----

“What do you mean you don’t like sushi?” Neal asked, incredulous.

Peter shrugged. “I’m from upstate. You don’t eat raw fish upstate. Raw fish upstate is a recipe for disaster.”

“How do I not know this about you? After all these years?” Neal shook his head – they’d have to revoke his conman’s badge if he’d miss such a thing. 

Peter shrugged. “I don’t hate Japanese cuisine, I just find the concept of raw fish disturbing.”

“But you let me pick out a sushi restaurant for tonight,” Neal protested.

“It was your turn.”

“But –“

Peter reached over and ran the back of his index finger along Neal's jaw. “The consternation, it is adorable,” he murmured and took a swig from his bottle of Kirin. 

Neal smiled broadly and popped open another edamame pod. 

\----

They walked the ten blocks back to Neal's shoulder-to-shoulder, and for the last two blocks, Peter grabbed up Neal's hand and held it loosely in his. Neal's stomach did a backflip when he did, and he tried his hardest to pretend like it was not a big deal, to ignore the warmth of Peter’s hand on his and the roughness of his callused palm over the back of Neal’s own, smooth one. They arrived at June’s front door and Neal regretted having to disengage so that he could find his keys in his pocket.

“Want to come up for some coffee? Or something?” he offered, looking up at Peter and trying to pretend that his face didn’t just flush thirteen different shades of red when he did it. 

Peter rested a hip against the doorframe, his body leaning over Neal's, close. “Coffee or something sounds great,” he said, his voice pitched low, slightly rumbly. Neal watched his tongue moving as he spoke, transfixed, and before he knew it, his lips were moving over Peter’s, who huffed a laugh into Neal's mouth at the small, desperate moan Neal let slip.

Neal's hand reached up and grabbed Peter’s lapel to pull him in closer. Peter slipped his arms around Neal, his right hand pressing against the small of his back, and when their crotches aligned, the heat there was almost a shock to Neal. He opened his eyes and ended the kiss, but kept his hand on Peter’s jacket and pulled him through the door. 

_Third dates were awesome._

Neal led Peter up the stairs to his apartment, the only thing preventing him from actually running was the prominent hard-on he was sporting. Just outside his door, Peter paused, pulling him in for another kiss that left him breathless and panting, reaching blindly behind himself for the doorknob and twisting it. They practically tumbled through, Neal calculating the time it would take to get all their clothes off, and wondering if that was strictly necessary, when the sound of a voice from somewhere across the room brought a very quick halt to the proceedings. 

“Ah, there you are, mon frère,” Moz said cheerfully, and if there was a sound effect of a phonograph needle sliding off a record, Neal would not have been surprised. “Hello, Suit,” he added, acknowledging Peter’s presence belatedly.

Neal turned and looked at Moz, incredulous, but his friend just stood beside the table, regarding them placidly. Neal felt Peter shift behind him, hiding himself slightly from view; no doubt the wood _he_ was sporting was not something he wanted Moz to witness. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you forget our appointment to review the – thing. And the – other thing?”

Neal groaned inwardly. Yes, he had made half a plan with Moz the previous day to go over floor plans and security specs for a new gallery on the Upper West Side, but not tonight, of all nights. But the job was legit – Moz had been asked to critique the designs, and Neal was only too happy to lend a hand; why Moz needed to remain cagey in front of Peter, Neal couldn’t say.

Or maybe he could. “Oh, was it date night?” Moz asked, too casually, and Neal could feel his own eyes go flat with impatience. 

“Yes. As I mentioned.”

“So sorry to interrupt. But really, I need your help on this, Neal, and, uh, the work is due, uh, soon.”

“Yeah, I think I’d better be going,” Peter said, and Neal could feel him moving back through the door. 

Neal turned and grabbed Peter’s wrist. “You don’t have to go,” he said, his voice low so Moz couldn’t hear.

“It’s OK. You guys have to work, I understand.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Neal, really,” Peter said earnestly. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide your life from me. If you and Moz have business, I accept that.”

“We don’t. He’s just –“

Peter put his finger over Neal's mouth. “I trust you,” he said, and there was such sincerity and openness about it, such faith, that Neal was too touched to tell him it was unnecessary – there was nothing going on. 

“Thank you,” Neal said instead.

Peter smiled, gave Neal's shoulder a squeeze and left. 

Neal stood in his doorway and watched him descend the stairs, waited until he heard the front door close and then turned to Moz. “You are such a cock-blocker,” Neal growled at him, and headed for his closet to change.

Moz just smirked.

_Worst third date ever._

 

**Number 2**

“Fourth date’s the charm, right?” Neal said to his reflection, tweaked the knot on his tie and flashed a grin at himself. Then he scowled. “God, you are such a loser,” he chided, and shut the bathroom light off. 

Tonight was his fourth date with Peter and there was nothing that would screw this up. Moz had been prohibited from coming over ( _”What do you mean I’m banished from your house?” he’d whined. “It’s Date Night, Moz, there are new rules for Date Night,” was Neal’s stern reply_ ), Neal had showered and dressed very carefully in his best suit, and had even put freshly laundered sheets on the bed just in case.

There was a knock at his door as he emerged into the apartment proper, and he went to answer it. His eyes lit up to see Peter had again gone all out in the wardrobe department. “Am I early?” he asked self-consciously.

“Just in time,” Neal said, and went back for his hat. “Where are we going?”

“This little French place El found. She thought you’d like it.”

Neal shook his head in quiet amazement at the direction his life had taken.

\----

Peter flinched as Neal slurped up one of the oysters he’d ordered as a starter. “Sure you don’t want to try one?” Neal teased and Peter made a face. “They _are_ an aphrodisiac.”

“I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you,” Peter said quietly, and then his face turned beet red and he studied his tomato bisque very closely.

Neal just watched him, his eyes shining. Maybe the fourth date was the charm.

Dinner progressed along the same lines, Peter telling Neal stories about his brief career in baseball, and Neal sharing anecdotes about his childhood exploits which safely fell under the header, “youthful highjinks”. They declined to order dessert – and Neal pointedly avoided any jokes about _being_ the dessert – and rose to leave, intending to head back to Neal's. As they did, Neal felt a momentary head rush and wave of heat overcome him, and he swayed slightly.

“You OK?” Peter asked, concern making his forehead adorably crinkly. 

“I – think so,” Neal said, shaking his head to clear it. “Must have had too much wine.” He had only had two glasses, but needed to cover, because he could feel the beginnings of _something_ , and it was a _something_ he wanted to think _nothing_ about.

They emerged from the restaurant and Peter hailed a cab. As Neal climbed in, Peter gave the driver June’s address and then settled back beside Neal, their shoulders and arms and thighs lining up comfortably. After a few moments, Peter took Neal's hand in his, lifted it to his face and kissed the back of it. Neal rested his head back against the seat to watch him, studying the side of his face, noticing a tiny smudge of shaving cream that remained behind his ear. Smiling, he reached up to wipe it away, leaning into Peter. As he did, Peter turned towards him as well, laid a hand lightly on his hip and planted the lightest of kisses on his mouth. “I have been looking forward to getting you alone all day,” he said as he pulled back.

“Oh?” 

“It was all I could think of.”

Neal wanted to tell him it’d been all he could think of for at least the last week, but instead he just smiled, feeling a frisson of happiness creep along his spine. Unfortunately, the frisson persisted until it turned into a shiver, then, alarmingly, a cold sweat. 

“What do you want to do tonight? It’s still early.”

“I – uh –“ Neal could barely speak around the lump of nausea he fought to contain.

“I hope you don’t mind going back to your place? El’s out with her girlfriend, Amy.”

Neal made a small, gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

“Am I being too forward?” Peter asked, doubt suddenly in his eyes. 

“Stop the car!” Neal said loudly.

“I am, aren’t I? I knew it!” Peter said to his back as Neal lurched forward and clawed desperately at the door handle. Neal stumbled from the cab to a nearby trash bin and very noisily lost his dinner. 

“Neal?” He could hear Peter’s voice behind him, then felt a hand on his back, light yet supportive. “Buddy?”

Neal straightened up and moaned as another wave of chills shook him. Peter put an arm around his shoulders and helped him back into the cab. 

\----

“Oh my effing God,” Neal moaned as he rested his flushed face against the cool porcelain of his toilet. He had not been this ill in recent memory; in fact, he hated vomiting so much he’d avoid it at any cost, even when he _knew_ it would make him feel better. He jumped as he felt something cold pressed against the back of his neck, flailing his left elbow up before he realized it was Peter. 

Peter made shushing noises and re-settled the washcloth on Neal’s neck, then sat down on the edge of the bathtub and handed Neal a glass of water. Neal swirled some in his mouth and spat it into the toilet, then repeated. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come up, you know.”

Peter nodded and started rubbing circles on Neal’s back with his right hand. “I know. I wanted to.”

Neal looked at him like he’d just grown another head. 

“You’re not used to someone taking care of you,” Peter observed.

“I guess I’m not.”

Peter flicked the lock of hair that was hanging in Neal’s eyes away and then ran his fingertips along Neal’s jawline. “You should get used to it.” He smiled, and Neal, as horrible as he felt, couldn’t help but notice how his laugh lines set off the way his eyes shone at him. “You want some help getting to bed?”

Neal thought of his newly made bed, and of the hopes he’d had for the evening, and moaned. “No, I think I should stay right here for a while. Thanks for everything.”

Peter nodded, the smile staying in his eyes as he watched Neal.

“And thank you for not saying ‘I told you so’ about raw seafood,” Neal added.

“It’s been hard, let me tell you,” Peter quipped.

“Well, don’t herniate anything. I wouldn’t want to send you back to El damaged.”

 

**Number 3**

 

Neal thought he might be psychic. 

He could see Peter in his bed.

Neal hoped he was psychic.

Tonight was the night, for sure. They had a date. It was Friday. El was out of town. _Moz_ was out of town. Neal was going to cook and they were staying in. Nothing would stand in their way. And Peter kept _looking at him._

Neal was almost 100% sure that the looks Peter was throwing him during the weekly staff meeting were meant to be smoldering. He kept glancing at Neal even when he was talking to someone else. If he wasn’t careful, people would begin to notice. If he wasn’t careful, Neal would jump his bones in the office.

Two hours later, Peter was jumping Neal's bones in the office.

Neal was on his way to a meeting. He’d been encouraged by Peter to mentor some of the probationary agents, and had been offering “Con Con,” a series of trainings on Friday afternoons where he taught them how to spot a scam, a forger, a pickpocket, and other useful skills that would impress their future bosses. He was taking the shortcut down the hall past the interrogation suite, when a ragged “Psst!” caught his attention off to his left. 

He turned his head. “Peter?” Peter stood leaning against the wall.

“Where ya goin’?”

“Con Con,” Neal said, gesturing with a thumb. “Today we’re doing melon drops, wanna watch?”

Peter shook his head, then crooked a finger at him. “Come here.”

Neal looked around and behind himself, then at Peter. “Huh?”

“C’mere.”

Suspicious, Neal approached him slowly. When he was near enough, Peter reached out, grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into the nearby supply closet. 

“Oh!” Neal said – or tried to say as Peter backed him up against the wall; anything else he might have added was muffled by Peter’s mouth on his. He threw his arms around Peter’s neck and felt Peter’s arms around his back. 

“God, I just...” Peter said brokenly, kissing Neal again. “You just kept giving me these _looks_ all morning!”

“Me?” Neal squeaked, but Peter’s lips were on his again and he really couldn’t be fussed to protest much more than that.

Neal moaned as Peter’s mouth moved over his jaw to his ear, his breath hitching as Peter scraped his lower teeth over his earlobe. Peter’s hands were everywhere, traveling down Neal's body, skimming his hips and, finally, rubbing a palm over Neal's hard-on where it strained against his thigh. When he did, Neal's whole body bucked and he threw his head back, barely noticing when it bashed against the wall. His eyes skimmed the ceiling as he tried desperately to control himself, and that’s when he saw it. 

A surveillance camera. Blinking at him from across the room. 

“Fuck a duck,” he breathed, then said, “Oooo!” because he didn’t usually like to swear in front of Peter for some reason.

“What? What’s wrong?” Peter said, coming up for air. His hair was messed from where Neal had raked his fingers through it, and his lips were swollen and red from stubble burn. He looked good enough to eat. Neal may have whimpered.

“Camera.” Peter’s eyes followed the direction of Neal's, saw the camera, and jumped back from Neal as if scalded. 

“Ah, jeez Louise, when did they install _that_?” Peter complained. 

“There has been a rash of stapler heists,” Neal said, deadpan.

Peter looked at Neal apologetically, his eyes traveling down to Neal's crotch and licking his lips, which made Neal's dick fairly jump in response. _Dammit!_ “I’m sorry,” Peter said. He reached a hand out to Neal and then thought better of it, pulling it back and smoothing his hair back, then hurried from the room. 

Neal sighed. _Not as sorry as I am,_ he thought, straightening his tie.

 

**Number 4**

The rest of the day passed interminably, with Neal in a constant state of semi-arousal that was both embarrassing and unbelievably hot. He wondered if Peter was going through the same thing, and then hoped very much that he was – he ought to be suffering as well, since he was the one who started it. Though if the truth had to be told, all it took for Neal to get a hard-on these days was a good, stiff breeze.

It was 3:00 and Neal was editing a very tedious report for their last mortgage fraud case when he sensed that someone was standing over his desk. He raised his eyes to find Peter staring down at him, his hair still slightly messed up from their aborted supply closet rendezvous.

“May I help you?” Neal asked evenly.

“Busy?” He glanced around the office surreptitiously, as if he was plotting some conspiracy.

“Nothing that can’t wait until Monday,” Neal replied, picking up on Peter’s mood and sitting back in his chair.

“Wanna get out of here?” Peter stood with his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, but Neal saw the tightness in his eyes and around his mouth and was satisfied that he’d had as rough an afternoon as Neal had.

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

“Get your hat,” Peter said, and Neal followed him to the elevators. When the doors had closed behind them, Peter eyed Neal up and down and ran a fingertip along his lower lip. 

“You keep looking at me like that and I’ll embarrass myself,” Neal informed him.

“Promise?” Neal just smiled. “Hold that dirty thought for when we get to your place. I have to run an errand before we go anywhere though, do you mind?”

\----

Peter’s errand was to deposit a cashier’s check at his bank, a branch of which was located three blocks from Federal Plaza. Neal strode alongside him, bantering easily about nothing, and Peter chuckled and shook his head as they arrived at the bank.

“What?” Neal asked.

“You’re adorable when you’re horny.”

“So are you.”

Neal waited as patiently as possible off to the side as Peter wended his way through the line to the tellers, keeping an eye on the exits, the surveillance cameras, security guards. Old habits died hard. 

He was soon aware that something was terribly wrong. But before he could move to warn Peter, three men had entered the bank whose body language shouted _Danger_ to Neal in every possible language. As one, they pulled ski masks over their faces, then one of them pulled all the blinds on the windows, another locked the doors, and the third pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the duffel slung across his body and shot it – rather unnecessarily melodramatically for Neal's tastes – into the ceiling. Neal hoped there was no one in the room above.

“This is a robbery!” shouted Captain Obvious, brandishing his weapon in a way that was certainly menacing, though less so given that the man was perhaps five and a half feet tall. Neal made a mental note not to antagonize him – short men and etc. Meanwhile, the other two men approached the tellers and threw reusable canvas shopping bags from a supermarket chain at them to fill with money. _How green of them,_ Neal thought. 

“Hands on heads and no one gets hurt! Not you, you fill up the bags,” Robber Number One said to the tellers. 

“And you!” Number Two said to the branch manager, who’d come out of her office when the shots were fired, “show me where the vault is.” 

They moved away and Neal looked over at Peter, eyes widening as he saw that his shoulder holster and FBI badge had become fully visible when he’d put his hands on his head. Catching on that something was wrong, Peter looked down and flinched, trying to lower elbows somewhat to close his jacket.

His movements did not go unnoticed; Captain Obvious came striding over, shotgun waving. “I thought I told you to keep your hands on your head?” As he came round to Peter’s front, he caught sight of Peter’s badge. “You’re a Fed?” he asked accusingly. Peter said nothing. Captain Obvious pressed his gun to Peter’s temple and repeated his question.

“I am an Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Peter answered calmly. The hammering of Neal's heart nearly drowned out Peter’s voice, but he made no move.

“On your knees.”

Peter complied slowly, and without making any sudden movements, Captain Obvious keeping the gun’s barrel pressed against his head the entire time. From his vantage point, Neal could see everything, could see the brief flash of intent cross the robber’s face before he seemed to come to a decision. Neal tensed, but Captain Obvious did not do as he feared, instead pulling the weapon back and turning it, bringing the butt of it down on the back of Peter’s head with an audible _THUNK_. As Peter fell unconscious to the floor, Neal took an involuntary step forward, and immediately regretted it, as it brought him to the Captain’s attention next.

“You want a piece-a this too?” the Captain shouted, taking a step towards Neal.

“No.” Neal kept his voice as calm as he could.

“You a Fed?”

“I am not.”

The far off sound of sirens took the Captain’s attention away. “Who called the cops?” he accused, rounding on the tellers, who began to cower away from him. “I said for no one to move!”

“Hey man, get it together!” Number One warned, but started looking nervously around, his own shotgun wavering in his hands. 

“I HAVE got it together,” the Captain snitted. “We have GOT to get out of here now before the cops surround the place.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Neal felt compelled to inform him. Through the poorly-closed blinds at the front of the bank, the flashing lights of a police car or five arriving could be seen, followed by the shadows of NYPD officers as they took up positions outside the building.

“Shit.” The two robbers put their heads together to confer, and Neal being Neal, he couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“OK, man, we planned for this, right? We go up, we get to the roof of the building behind this one. OK?” Number One said. 

Captain Obvious nodded. “OK, right. Yeah. We should tie these people up first.”

“We have time for that?”

“You want them letting the cops in at our backs before we clear the roof?”

Neal, along with the few customers, workers, and the elderly security guard were herded into the front of the bank where Number One hastily bound their hands and feet with zipties. He then confiscated the guard’s gun and stepped over to Peter, who still lay prone on the bank’s floor. “What about this guy?” he asked, removing Peter’s gun from his holster and shoving it into the waistband of his jeans.

“Bring him along – we may need a hostage.”

Neal watched as they bundled Peter away, then closed his eyes and calmly counted to twenty, ignoring the crying and panicking people that surrounded him on the carpeted floor of the customer waiting area. 

“Right,” he said at last, tossing the zipties he’d slipped from his wrists aside and undoing his own ankles. He then undid one of the tellers' hands and moved on to another; before long, all his fellow hostages were freed, and he was helping them all to the front doors. Removing his white pocket square from his jacket, he waved it outside the door before opening it wider to allow the rest of the people to run to safety with the NYPD arranged outside. He found himself swept along with the group, unfortunately, and it took a few minutes to slip away and back inside, but a bang and a clang from the back of the bank told him Captain Obvious and his gang were still in the bank.

_I’m coming, Peter,_ he thought as he moved on cat feet to the hall leading to the back.

Neal could hear voices coming from up ahead, so he slowed his progress. The bank’s vault took up half of the rear of the building. As a classic four-in-one setup, Neal knew the bulk of the cash would be contained in an inner vault beside the room with the safety deposit boxes at the back, but that there would be a cage set up in the exterior room for easy access by the tellers. He peeked around the doorframe and saw that yes, as he’d expected, the robbers had been distracted by the presence of large quantities of small bills and had been filling their bags with those. It also meant that they – along with the manager and Peter – were _right there_ at the front, so the possibilities for stealth were limited. 

He was relieved to note that Peter was apparently conscious, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, rubbing at the back of his head and keeping his eyes off the gunmen, who were taking entirely too much time getting their shit wrapped tight, if they wanted Neal's professional opinion. The bank manager sat against Peter looking scared out of her wits.

Thinking fast, Neal chanced the wave of a hand to get Peter’s attention. Peter’s eyes went flat as they met Neal's before he retreated from view. Neal hoped that meant Peter was ready to kick a little ass.

Neal positioned himself behind the vault door and whistled, sharply. When there was no movement inside, he did it again. Soon enough, he saw the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun emerge, followed quickly by Captain Obvious. “Someone out here?” he obvioused, and Neal's hatred for the idiot doubled.

Moving quickly, Neal pounced, bringing his hands down on the man’s wrists, hard, causing him to drop his weapon. But the Captain was scrappier than Neal gave him credit for, and he jumped back before Neal could land another blow. His eyes narrowed and he launched himself at Neal, landing a few punches in Neal's midsection that had him doubled over soon enough. When his next blow caught Neal across the cheekbone, he saw stars, then he saw red and tackled the man to the floor. Getting up on his knees, he winced as a knee caught him in the kidneys and then began to beat the crap out of the man.

“I. Had. _Plans._ Tonight,” Neal gritted out as his fists connected with Captain Obvious’s face. “Asshole.”

Luckily, Peter managed to pull him off the hapless robber before anyone got seriously hurt.

 

**Finally**

 

It was two in the morning when Neal and Peter finally limped up to the front door at June’s, and Neal wasn’t entirely sure who was propping whom up as they made their way slowly up the stairs. It took entirely too long for Peter to be checked out at the ER (no concussion, thankfully), and for Neal to get a couple of stitches for his face. Then they had to give their statements to the police, and so much for the romantic evening at home that Neal had planned.

Neal let Peter take the first shower, leaving him a t-shirt and a pair of sweats that fit surprisingly well (“Why do you have clothes that fit me?” he’d asked, and when Neal raised his eyebrows, he amended, “Never mind.”). When he emerged from the bathroom from his own shower, he found Peter sitting cross-legged on the bed. 

Peter blinked as he heard Neal enter and looked up at him. “Something wrong?” Neal asked, running a hand through his damp hair.

“I never want to move again,” Peter informed him, looking as exhausted as Neal felt. 

Neal smiled, and walked over, hooked a finger under Peter’s chin and angled his face up. He frowned as the light caught the blossoming bruises along Peter’s jaw. “Ouch,” he commented as he ran a thumb along them gently.

“I could say the same,” Peter said, reaching up and ghosting his fingers over the cut along Neal's cheekbone. 

“Occupational hazard.”

“We need new occupations.”

Neal smiled and let his hand drop. “You should go to sleep, you look beat.”

Peter nodded and let Neal lay him back against the pillows, watching as Neal turned all of the lights out. He turned over as Neal joined him under the covers, and they lay facing each other, silent, for several minutes. 

“We don’t seem to be able to catch a break lately, huh?” Peter began.

“Oh, I had such plans.” Neal tried not to let the disappointment show – they had the whole of Saturday if they wanted.

Peter reached for him, a hand on his hip and pulled him in for a light kiss. Neal kissed him back, inching closer and reaching for Peter’s face with both hands. “Ow,” Peter whispered as Neal's fingers pressed against the lump on the back of his head, then added, “It’s OK,” before Neal had a chance to apologize. 

He pulled Neal closer then, his hands warm on Neal's bare back, searching, exploring. Neal winced when Peter pressed a little too hard at his bruised ribs, but then smiled reassuringly and hooked a leg over Peter’s hips, pulling him in even closer.

Peter rolled them so he was half on top of Neal, and they kissed for several minutes before Neal realized with a flash of happiness that Peter’s fingers had worked themselves under the waistband of his sleep pants to knead at the flesh of his buttocks. Neal's dick jumped with interest at the prospect, and he ground his hips against Peter’s, noticing that he, too, seemed up for something. 

“You sure?” Neal asked. It was so late.

“I have wanted you for so long,” Peter began, his dark eyes boring into Neal's. Whatever else he was about to say was muffled by Neal's mouth on his. 

Their lovemaking was awkward, unpracticed, and there were entirely too many teeth involved at one point, but in the end, Neal collapsed on the bed beside Peter, spent and with every nerve ending in his body singing. Peter pulled him closer and Neal rested his head against Peter’s chest, listening as his heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm. “At last,” he drawled.

“Was it what you expected?”

Neal snuggled closer and thought back on all the fits and starts this liaison had suffered through the last couple of weeks – from Moz’s interference to the food poisoning to today’s closet encounter of the third kind, and realized none of it mattered, because here they finally were. Here they were, together at last, and all he could see in his future was more of it, all he wanted was, simply, this closeness, and it didn’t matter whether it was perfect or messy or rushed. He had Peter, and Peter had him. 

He strained his head back to look at Peter, who looked down and kissed him again. 

“It was better.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
